Author's Note: I shall blame all typos, spelling errors and 'lose' as 'loose' on two things, so if you see something, point it out. If you just say 'it needed a beta', then trust me, I already know this. Reason one: I'm writing a chapter every 3 days, hopefully. I don't have time, really, to do as much personal criticism as I usually (pretend) to do. Reason two: my usual beta, the wonderful, dearling, fantastic Mrs Ophelia Yeti-Insane (who said you couldn't have faux marriages with platonic female friends you've never met, who are thousands of kilometers away, on MSN on a Saturday morning?) is also doing NaNoWriMo and so trying to write just as much as I am. Perhaps she'll be able to point out my typos in December.
I also think I should probably mention that over the course of this story I have pointedly ignored many Canonical aspects that didn't fit well with the story I was trying to create, such as a point about fairy evolution Holly mused upon in AF. This was pretty purposeful ignoring, taking a lot of effort, and, they really are rather insignificant things anyway, in the long(er) run.
169.3 km/hr
"The future is something which everyone reaches at the rate of sixty minutes in an hour, whatever he does, whoever he is."
- C. S. Lewis
Root remembered, as the air rushed past his helmeted head at a speed that he wasn't about to admit to be almost frightening, the Tech nerd on the other side of the helmet intercom being rather snide, that he had been eighty years younger and not entirely sober when he had set that record. He had been thrust more completely into the position of Commander since; he'd eaten a few too many good meals and not exercised enough. But he hadn't had nearly as much fun in a long while.
He'd forgotten the thrill of the speed, the beauty of the rolling hills cloaked in darkness, the chill in the air that froze the tips of his ears even though his thick, well-insulated, fire, radiation and troll-proof helmet. Well, not quite forgotten, but he just hadn't let himself remember very often. The air and the thrill and the adrenaline had been squashed into a little-used corner of his mind where the memories of freedom would not have space to occupy his thoughts, thoughts that were supposed to be focused on reports, the Council, and widow's pensions.
But now, now he remembered the freedom as if it were only yesterday. As if he was as able now as he was 580 years ago, when he had races with Briar that lasted for hours, before they'd crumpled in a heap of sedated, not-quite exhaustion. They had run into old wives' yards, terrorizing pet cats by moving too quickly for the cat to defend its territory against the intrusion. He remembered sucking dirty icicles of frost that formed on window-ledges when there were coal shortages, for even though the Dwarves are the best miners that ever existed, sometimes they ran into problems. There had been strikes and poverty and starvation, but Julius had always had a nice warm bath and a full meal to return to at his house that was literally on a hill high above the rest of Haven.
He hadn't really known what was going on in the streets he roamed without his parent's permission. He hadn't been expecting the change in dynamics when some people had started to talk, have more organized strikes, committee against the continuation of the Frond Dynasty, because what had the King ever done for them?
He hadn't known why people were spitting at him in the streets he loved so much. Or why Briar had started to spit back, throwing stones and rotten fruit. The riots, the uprisings, the sacking of all the houses in his street, and the way the butler had dressed him in the boot-boy's clothes and hidden him while they moved down dark alleys to a place of safety, where the butler's family was hiding as well, for they had been labeled sympathists by their neighbours. He remembered the feel of the streets, the scared and the hopeless and the violence that came with a few people believing with every aspect of their soul that they were Right and, since they were, the Universe was their ally. He remembered encountering meetings, pretending to be slow and poor and ignorant.
He remembered when … things returned. They reverted to the state they had always been in, almost anyway. The riots and strikes stopped, because they were no longer practical. People, the everyday people, they stopped being interested in politics, because it took too much energy, and they had to worry about food and their families instead. The King was never returned to his throne, but 580 years later they no longer remembered how he had left: Corporal Frond wasn't looked down upon because of her name, she was revered once more. The Book, the Book had changed. Rules changed to include 'respect of your leaders' and 'governing Council, holding the Wisdom of all Seven Lords'; and the rules of the Book are better than Laws, as they enact their own punishment without the need for the State to spend any money.
That was the last time terrorism had been used Underground, even though then it hadn't yet gained that name.
Now the chill of the wind wasn't speaking of freedom and youth, it was mocking him in his age, his receding hairline, and the fact that he could remember these things at all. He wasn't old, he was only 613, and elves were expected to live for almost 2000 years, but he felt old.
It was only a few more days until Christmas, and he was in Ireland. It was cold, and fairies don't like the cold.
He'd slowed his speed to a fraction of what it was before, even though he really should've been getting back to the Brambling's house ASAP. The speed was almost making him feel sick, and it had never done that before. 'You're as old as you feel you are' said a voice in his mind, sounding scarily like his grandfather. But that was the whole point, wasn't it? Root felt old.
He tried to forget the memories once more, or at least push them back into that place they had existed in for the last 580 years; existed like sardines squished in a space too small, sealed in a tin case, sardines that were still alive and sometimes came out for a bite, or danced around in order to be noticed. That's what memories are.
He ignored the world, focusing instead on the blipping red dot that had appeared, hovering, over the visor of his helmet, pointing out where the oak bend was. It was actually quite hard to see the flashing marker, and he would have made a comment about the impracticality of it being so close to an officer's eyes, but then decided better of it since it would only get a remark about shortsightedness arriving when youth departed.
The site was only a few hundred metres away when he dropped into a steep dive, as he had always enjoyed. But, it seemed, he'd forgotten just how off-putting the feeling that you had left your stomach behind a few seconds ago really was.
He landed, stumbling slightly on the uneven terrain, actually quite scared he'd fall into the slow-flowing river twisting around the tall oak. He tried to remember when he'd last completed the Ritual, but wasn't able to come up with a timeframe, since he never seemed to be in a position to use any more than a dribble of magic for shielding, or a slight amount for the unorthodox use of warming his toes.
He reached a hand out and laid it upon the rough bark. He could feel the tree, as if he could count its breaths, read its dreams. It was an amazing feeling, something he'd forgotten for years. He let his fingers trace down the side of the tree until he reached the bottom. He plucked an acorn from where it rested on the half-rotten leaf-litter still remaining from late autumn. It felt comforting in his hand, it always had.
He took to the sky once again, not nearly as fast as he had been moving before, looking for the right place to return the acorn to the ground. He had always been considerate as to where he planted his acorns, not like Holly who planted hers in cellars and the Arctic, and he saw the perfect place in a triangle of bare earth between the back of a shed and two joining fences; cows would not be able to get at the sapling there, though humans would always be able to get everywhere.
He landed, knelt down on the damp, slightly frosty earth and smoothed a calm hand over the soil. "I return thou, my friend, to the earth," Root whispered, his words barely more that mouthed, stolen away by a slight breeze as soon as they left his lips, "in return for the renewal of the gift that is my right by my Lord Elav'shæ."
And the magic flowed in an instant, up his arm, dancing like young fairies out late on exotic drugs, partying over the back of his hand. It lit up the area around him, a circle of ere blue glow creating an image that a human observer would probably have to put down to aliens. If they were American at least, and if they were anyone else, they would probably put it down to Americans. The magic was a wonderful feeling, something it seemed he'd forgotten in the twenty minutes since he'd spent his last on refreshing Artemis. Root didn't remember when last he'd felt so alive, so strong. It had definitely been a long time since he'd been 'running hot', and even longer since he'd experienced the addictive power trip that was the Ritual.
The sparks slowed, but he could feel them pushing at each cell of his body, a welcome invading force into every aspect of his soul. It felt, quite frankly, absolutely amazing.
He breathed in the air of the field, which held a residual stink of cows and spent petroleum, the scent of soil recently broached as winter crops were uprooted. It was one of the best things he'd smelt in years; he hadn't had a chance to appreciate the world Above for far too long.
Magic really was a drug, it was no wonder People never broke the rules of the Book; magic was far too precious a substance that without it all chemicals that twisted the brain would be simply Methadone to a Heroin addict.
Root barely remembered to pat some cold earth over the wound he'd made in the planet's side in order to plant the acorn, before taking to the sky as if memories and age had not recently driven him from it.
He set the timer on his watch and revved the engine of the wings – the latest model, very streamline and smooth in flight; he hadn't had anything nearly as professional when he had set the record.
He flew North East, running hot once more. He didn't improve his record, but a 169.3 km/hr average isn't bad for an old, red-faced elf.
He felt like he was Julius once more. The elf who'd roamed the streets, terrorizing old pixie's cats.
It was truly amazing what a good shot of magic could do for an old soul.
There was a newspaper on the desk in front of Trouble Kelp. Captain Vein was still standing just on the other side of the desk, having brought the copy in as soon as it had landed on his own hands. It wasn't exactly a subtle piece of journalism that had their attention. In fact, it was rather bold, and quite prominent, the headlines taking up quite a lot of the front page.
Feared KIA
In the Police Plaza there has been no appearance of the regional Commander, Julius Root, in charge of all Haven and Haven's hinterland police forces, for over 3 days. Acting Commander Trouble Kelp has been worried about the whereabouts of his superior, especially in the recent events that have troubled Haven. It is thought—"
"D'Arvit." Trouble looked up at Captain Vein over the copy of the after-midnight paper, scanning over the rest of the article, hoping for something more promising yet knowing that it wasn't going to appear any time soon. "We're in trouble."
"I thought that was why you picked your name."
Trouble pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. "That was not funny, Vein. Do not do that again. However true it might have been, once, when I was a hot-headed flyboy."
Trouble pulled the palms away, blinking his eyes a few times before picking up a cup of half-cold instant coffee. He drained the mug in one gulp. "Do we have any idea how the press found out about Root being missing?"
Vein shrugged. "It could have been anything that made them realize. Anything. The way the corridor to his office is clearer than it should be. The lack of red faces screaming at the poor newsreaders, telling them to clear off. Anything. And the important thing is what are we going to be able to do about it. They're saying that maybe Root was Killed In Action, that's a myth we can't afford to not dispel."
"I know. The city is in enough of a panic without adding something like this to it all. Although," Trouble laughed, mockingly, "what action was he killed in? We haven't had any conflicts since before E1. We don't have any leads to do anything by. We don't know of the important people who were involved, we don't even have any ways to find out."
"Well, I'm getting suspicious of Root as well. He's disappeared the last two times there's been trouble."
Trouble glared at Vein.
"Hey, I was kidding, Trouble. Of course I was. I know that both times Root's been drawn away from the Underground, probably so these things can happen. People know that he's the head of the LEP, the red-faced driving force that gets us up in the morning. But the media's thinking of his disappearances in that way; I wouldn't be surprised that the next one says that he's off with his mistress, drunk. So that's what we've got to do… preemptively strike against the media. We can't have another fiasco like when we suspected Foaly to be a traitor; that got out by the next day. There've been too many opportunities for the public to lose faith in the LEP recently. And then things just get messy."
They both thought of riots, of people 'taking the Law into their own hands' and going out to lynch whichever minority they liked least. "What do we say though? What excuse can we give for the Commander being missing, especially when we can't tell the press when he'll be back?"
"Sick?"
Trouble rolled his eyes. "You've been watching Mud Men soaps. If Root was sick, it'd be far too serious."
"Dead relative?"
"Like that'd stop Root from coming into work."
"Visiting the other regional Commanders in order to gain some useful information, as well as forming new alliances with the police forces of Atlantis, the Dwarfs and the Kry'rae?"
Trouble raised an eyebrow. "Well, we don't have any better solutions. Even though it could be proved false quite easily."
Vein put on his 'talking to the press' face. "'It's an issue of delicate tact, an effort to unite the sometimes divided areas of the Underground against a common enemy.'"
"Good enough. Although, putting 'delicate tact' into the same sentence as 'Commander Root' should prove that it's a lie. Who's going to say it? You or me?"
"You, Trouble. It'll seem more official. They might believe it. How good are your acting skills?"
"I joined the police. Of course I can't act. I've only got 'I'm sorry for your loss', 'if you don't get moving there'll be trouble', 'I'm watching you' and 'I swear I'm listening, sir' expressions."
"Use the 'listening' one then, Trouble. People of the press feel awkward when someone appears to be listening to them hard, they're scared they might be caught out telling untruths."
"Well then, let us go to press, Captain." Trouble stood, pushing the newspaper to the bottom of a little-used filing drawer he had beside his desk. He stood back to let Vein leave the office before him.
The shot of magic that Root had imparted on Artemis just before leaving had done its job, a far better job that even 2 cups of strong black coffee had been able to do. It was the same feeling of complete wellbeing that he'd last felt on the Mayak train, after accidentally draining Holly of her magic, and had rarely been felt at all before that incident. Magic was truly a wonderful substance.
Artemis picked up the box he'd seen about Butler's person for the thirteen years he'd been alive, brushing a soft hand over the top. He'd never actually found out in any certain terms what Butler kept in it, but he took that it was probably survival items of all sorts, false identification under multiple nationalities and the names and details of connections in strategic cities all over the world. But now there was something else inside the slim case. Something even the People were afraid of. Although, quite a few were scared of him as well, which really was highly illogical if they were to give it any prolonged thought about strength and vulnerability.
It was definitely something powerful, and Artemis had always had a fascination with the powerful, especially if it was in his hands.
Artemis put the box down carefully on one of the many tables that were littered around the Library, which usually only held lamps and the occasional book that had been forgotten about and not replaced.
He moved over to Holly once more, watching the beads of sweat forming on her forehead as her depleted immune system struggled against the flu virus and whatever other diseases were ravaging her body. He took her temperature, counted her heart beats for 15 seconds, then realized that Liam was standing just behind him, looking down at Holly as well, rubbing his eyes with a fist to help clear the sleep from them. Artemis then took a fresh needle and vial from the bedside table and removed another amount of blood for testing; the blue sparks healed the skin as soon as the tip was removed.
"She's really ill, isn't she?" Liam sounded as if he couldn't quite believe the fact; the realities of the recent days (how long had it been since that phone call and attempted blackmail?) weren't yet realities it seemed. Artemis eloquently raised an eyebrow, pointing out the obviousness of Liam's question. "Yeah, I know. But she looks like a little kid, like she's only 4 or 5. But not. It's odd."
"The word you're looking for is inhuman."
Liam nodded. "That's the scariest part. I'm not meant to believe in fairies."
"You don't have to believe in something you know to be true, you just have to accept it. That's how the existence of God could be disproven, since by his own Words he would not exist without belief, and with proof there is no longer a need to belief."
"Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Who said nothing good came out of the 80's?" There was silence for a moment, contemplation, as Artemis moved around past Holly's bed and onto the one where Jac lay, looking far better proportioned in the human-sized bed.
"How old is she? Do you know?"
Artemis turned back to face Liam, who was still looking down at Holly as if she were the final proof of his insanity, so meaning that he wouldn't need to believe in his insanity any longer. "According to her LEP file she's eight-six." Liam looked shocked. Artemis grinned. "Root's in his 600's, I believe, though not yet middle-aged. Not technically at least, although I'm sure he's had a mid-life crisis."
Liam shook his head, adding this to the long list of recently learnt items he hadn't known he needed to know. "What's she like, Artemis?"
Artemis moved away from Jac's bed, back towards Liam and the comatose Holly. "She's… fiery. A hothead. And holds her grudges extremely close to her heart and mind. But a good soul, won't let something bad happen if there's a way she can prevent it. She doesn't pay attention to the rules if they stand in her way."
"She sounds like a reasonable person to have on your side, covering your back."
"She's got a fantastic punch at least." Artemis looked over at Liam once more, who was rather opened mouthed, probably because of the images his imagination was providing of this little chit of a girl punching the always aloof Artemis Fowl.
"Come now, when will you stop being shocked, Brambling? It's most disconcerting that you continuously insist to imitate a rather unattractive fish. I would say 'you don't want to know', but you obviously do. So how about I just leave it with 'you are never going to know, so don't even try to ask me'? I think that'll work out best."
The moment of 4am comrade was over, even though Liam had not looked at his watch since waking, so didn't actually know what time it was. Artemis moved towards Jac once more, noting that nothing serious was happening to her, glanced back over to the box on the side table, then moved on to his makeshift laboratory at one side of the Library.
Butler came back into the room once more, having left to confer with his cousin and to make himself a mug of coffee and a sandwich. Liam jumped when Butler spoke from just behind his own shoulder: "Do you need anything, Master Artemis?"
"Some greater understanding of that magic would be helpful." Artemis waved a hand over to where the box sat, ominous in its projection of simplicity. "Other than that? I'm fine, Butler. I'm going to wait until the Commander gets back before I even open that box though. And I'll try to get another line through to Foaly. Why do you think they missed El'veis draíocht uses on my Medical Doctorate curriculum?"
"They probably thought it was too much of a New Age medicine. You know how doctors feel about alternative medicines."
"True."
"Artemis," Butler moved closer, leaving Liam behind beside Holly's limp form. "I should probably tell you what happened at Stonehenge. I know that the Commander wouldn't want me to tell you, but I feel I must betray his trust for this. We entered the fort, and the entire area was … made up of, I guess … the magic inside that case. It affected the Commander, although I don't perceive it to have had any effect on myself. Exposure caused the Commander to have… a magical fit, I think. He fell unconscious after we'd been inside the fort for perhaps a minute, if that. Of course, the magic there was highly, highly concentrated. You shouldn't have to undertake any risks without first knowing what the possible outcomes might be, Artemis, as much as that is possible at least."
"Thank you for telling me, Butler, but it's not as if we can examine the pros and cons for very long. Holly's dying, we can't exactly committee over the issue."
"How far will you go, even if you can't figure out how to best use this?"
"If she falls ill to a disease due to the El'veis draíocht she'll be no worse off than she is right now. There is no choice."
"I had thought you'd consider it that way, Artemis. Logic at all times, even in the face of responsibility."
Butler almost smiled, and would have, if this were a matter someone could ever smile over.
Root entered the room with a flourish, pulling off the wings and dropping them carelessly on the carpet, pushing the device to one side with the insole of a booted foot. He pulled off the heavy helmet, shaking droplets of condensation from his hair. He'd obviously been flying with the visor up, something that Holly had never done when trying her hand at the record. His face was flushed with windburn and adrenaline. He was almost beaming. It was a rather disturbing sight.
"It's been so long since I was last running hot. I'd forgotten how much energy it gives an old fairy. Are you ready to tackle this disease yet, Fowl?"
"Actually, I was waiting for you to return, Commander. Could I use your helmet for a line through to Foaly? Then he'll be able to view what's going on here." Responded Artemis, pulling his mobile from a pocket and bringing up the recent records.
"Certainly." Root picked the helmet up from its recumbent position on the floor and threw it across the room at Artemis. Butler leaned across and caught it before it managed to smash into his employer's face.
Artemis took it from Butler without looking up. "My thanks, Commander."
Liam shook his head in amazement, wondering, for not the first time in the past few days, whether he had fallen into a particularly convincing dream, which was the only rational explanation he could really find for the state of the universe around him at this moment.
"Foaly?" Artemis was speaking into the microphone in its case on the side of the helmet, the same model as he'd dismantled a year ago after kidnapping Holly.
"Fowl?"
"Of course. Butler and Commander Root arrived back about half an hour ago. They managed to collect the El'veis draíocht. I wanted you online before we tried to do anything with it though."
There was an almost-whinny on the other end of the line. "Artemis Fowl, asking for help. Amusing."
"There's nothing logical in doing stupid things for the wrong reasons. If there are others just as ignorant as yourself who can share any blame or retribution that may occur out of said stupid thing, then all the better."
Root was the one who sniggered this time.
"Let's just - for want of sounding like an uncultured American - get this over with." Continued Artemis. "Any particular ideas, Foaly? Anything you feel you should mention about the effects this magic can have on humans? Because, although it didn't affect Butler, I'm not so lucky as to share his trollish constitution. No offence intended of course, Butler."
"When this magic was last really upon the surface you were a race of things crawling in the mud, going 'ug' occasionally when you were feeling sociable. So, I really wouldn't have an idea."
"Well, here goes nothing at least."
And Artemis plucked the metallic box from the table, flicked the small catch and flung it open.
And if Artemis had heard Butler's attempts at describing the phenomenon at Stonehenge he would have agreed: it really did look as if it was something more than real, as though it existed in more than the usual dimensions (even all eleven dimensions that recent physicists had been suggesting). He thought that perhaps this was the personification of Dark Matter; something which had been troubling scientists for years now, since they'd invented it in order to prove some of their theorems correct. And if he'd known of Mrs Root's explanation of 'fluorescent black' in regard to the magic's colouring, he would have had to admit that this was the best description that was likely to be ever given; it was like trying to explain Beethoven to someone born deaf, the words didn't really exist that could possibly make sense of it without first seeing it for yourself.
But, Butler had also been wrong. The magic was not holding itself together in a tight sphere. It was moving across the room with dizzying speed, dancing among the books on shelves, inspecting the microscopes and rows of chemicals, pausing for a moment over a medical text book open on Artemis's workbench.
If Artemis had known of Butler's scared, unspoken observation that the magic was somehow sentient he would have spoken his agreement in that moment. But he didn't, so all he did was stand still, as Butler drew close to Artemis, who was still holding the empty box open on top of sweaty palms.
It was moving far too fast and violently to be composed of happy particles of ten-thousand-year-old magic.